


No Comparison

by wesleysgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to  for the beta.<br/>This is my first attempt in this fandom, so encouragement is hugely appreciated!</p>
    </blockquote>





	No Comparison

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to for the beta.  
> This is my first attempt in this fandom, so encouragement is hugely appreciated!

More nights than not, John Watson comes back to the flat smelling of sex.

At first, it’s a matter of only mild interest to Sherlock Holmes, a vague distraction from more important puzzles while he’s identifying first a thief and then a murderer. But before he knows it it’s been three days since he had proper work, and he’s bored. He needs a challenge, a difficult case to solve, but there’s nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, and it’s so bloody _dull_.

So when John turns up just before midnight on a Wednesday, unwinding his scarf and dropping it onto a chair, Sherlock is grateful to have something to focus on.

“You’ve had sex,” he announces.

John stops moving and looks at him. “Do you sit around thinking up the _most_ inappropriate things to say?” he asks.

“Yes, I have a list.” Sherlock is impatient. He doesn’t want to argue about this, he wants to stretch his mental faculties beyond calculating the depth of hypothetical injuries caused by assorted everyday items not normally considered weapons. “You were with another man. ‘Another’ being a man in addition to the one you were with last week, not an indication of the fact that you are also, yourself, a man.”

“Thank you for that brilliant bit of deduction,” John says dryly. “It’s a mystery you’re not listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for your ability to identify people’s genders.”

“You met him at a pub,” Sherlock says.

John rolls his eyes. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Of course we are, I haven’t anything better to do,” Sherlock complains.

“In which case we’re _definitely_ not having this conversation,” John says, and stomps off up the stairs.

Sherlock throws himself on the sofa and stares at the ceiling.

~ * ~

The next night, he waits at the window when he expects John home. This ends up being later than he’d anticipated, which means he’s cross by the time the taxi arrives.

“You’re half an hour later than you were last night,” he says when John comes in.

“I wasn’t aware there was a schedule.” John’s voice is mild enough, but the way that his jaw tightens tells Sherlock that he isn’t as unfazed as he’s trying to appear.

“No, but the past four nights you’ve been home between half eleven and midnight. It’s half past.”

“Did you need me for something?” John asks, and sits to untie his shoes. “You could have rung me.”

“But you wouldn’t have answered.” Sherlock studies the back of John’s head; the hair there is mussed, as if he’s just got out of bed.

“I’d have got a message,” John says. He sits upright again, hands on his knees, and looks at Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, and sighs dramatically. “Absolutely nothing, unfortunately. No murders, not even a murder masquerading as a suicide. I think we’ll have to move.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “Not to worry. I’m sure someone will oblige you by being the victim of a violent crime soon enough.”

~ * ~

“Oh, now you’re not even _trying_ ,” Sherlock says the next night when John comes in. There’s a faint smudge of pale coral lipstick on John’s collar and a small hematoma beneath his jaw.

“You’re right,” John says wearily, and sits without removing his coat or shoes. “I’m not.” He rubs his forehead and looks at Sherlock. “What’s this about, Sherlock?”

This isn’t a question Sherlock had been anticipating, so it takes him a moment to answer. “Well,” he says. “It’s about... your sex life.”

“Yes, but _why_?” John sounds plaintive. “You must have more important things to think about.”

“If only I did.” Sherlock sighs and then frowns, studying John. “You’re irritated.”

“You’ve been on me every night,” John says, getting up and stripping off his coat with more energy than the task requires. “You’re prying into something extremely personal when you’ve no intention of sharing your own exploits --”

“I haven’t any to share,” Sherlock protests.

“Well, let’s talk about _that_ , then,” John says, pacing. “Is that with this is about? You haven’t got a sex life, so you want to dissect mine?”

“I wanted to understand why it’s so important to you.”

John stops and looks at him. “Me specifically, or people in general?”

“You’re the only person I know,” Sherlock says quietly, and John sits down beside him.

“Look,” John says awkwardly. “Is there -- I’m a doctor, you know that, you can talk to me. You can trust me to keep what you say confidential. Are you... is there anything wrong?”

“Physically?” Sherlock shakes his head.

“No issues... becoming aroused?” John leans back into the sofa, still facing ahead rather than turned toward Sherlock directly.

“Not that I know of.”

The edge of John’s thumb rubs against the seam of his trousers. “And have you ever? Had sex. With someone else, I mean.”

There’s a faint sensation at the back of Sherlock’s throat, as if he’s swallowed tea without letting it cool properly. “Yes.” He keeps his gaze trained on the worn floorboards. “I... didn’t enjoy it.”

“Were you --” John hesitates, then says, firmly, “Sherlock,” and waits until Sherlock looks at him. John’s wearing an expression that hints toward waiting to be kicked. “Were you forced?”

He can’t help himself -- he laughs. It’s a short, sharp laugh that sounds wrong. “No. It would be a tidy explanation, though, wouldn’t it.”

Clearly relieved, John nods. “Still. And you’ve never cared to... repeat the experience?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock isn’t sure what it is that he’s feeling. Impatient? Unlikely, as that’s an emotion that he’s very familiar with. Bleak? Is that what this is? He pats John’s knee, ready for this conversation to be over, and is nearly shocked when John reaches out, much more quickly than he might have anticipated, and grips his wrist.

“You need to,” John says. “I think -- I really do. It’s not healthy.”

“Oh, and spending every evening with a new partner is?” Sherlock feels anger creeping upward from his chest. He jerks his arm from John’s grasp and stands up. “You’re hardly in a position to lecture.”

“It isn’t every evening!” John is standing as well. “Besides, I’ve met this woman --”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Sherlock spits out. “ _I don’t want to hear it, do you understand?_ ”

It isn’t until later, much later, that he realizes it’s true. At the time, he’d just thought of it as a way to halt the conversation.

Now, he wonders when he began caring.

~ * ~

As if trying to prove a point, John goes on a second date with the coral lipsticked girl, then a third. She wears perfume that smells of lavender and Sherlock doesn’t like the way it follows John into the flat. It means he encounters it when least expected -- when he’s shoving something of John’s off the sofa to clear space, or when he knocks into a kitchen chair while juggling a book and a mug of tea. It’s distracting, the way so many things about John Watson are proving to be distracting, and it makes Sherlock feel something.

Frustrated.

Angry.

Something.

“What are you trying to prove?” he asks finally.

John, up to his elbows in soapy dish water, glances at him. “Sorry?”

“With this -- show of serial monogamy. Continuing to sleep with this same girl.”

“You make it sound,” John says slowly, “as if I’m involved with a fifteen year old. She’s not a _girl_ , she’s nearly my age.”

That’s a detail that’s meaningless in this context, so Sherlock waves it away with an impatient hand. “You’re trying to prove that you’re capable of a proper relationship.”

“Okay. Number one, I _am_ capable, but that doesn’t mean I’m trying to prove anything to you or to anyone else.” John rinses off his hands and reaches for a dish towel. “Number two, why on earth would you think that?”

“Because you don’t actually like her,” Sherlock explains. Honestly, sometimes it’s like having a conversation with a child.

“I don’t?” John seems more amused than angry, which is good. “Do tell me how you’ve reached this devastating conclusion.”

Sherlock ticks off his observations with his fingers. “You don’t phone her just to chat. You haven’t bought her flowers. You come home to sleep afterwards.”

“Maybe she’s a light sleeper,” John suggests.

“Maybe you don’t want her to infer that you’re more invested in her than you actually are.” Sherlock is correct and he knows it. So does John, who sighs and tosses the dish towel at Sherlock.

“Fine,” John says. “You’re so brilliant, you dry the bloody dishes.”

It’s one of the most absurd things he’s ever said, but Sherlock decides that it’s easier to go along with him. He’s putting the third plate onto the shelf when John says something even more absurd.

“You’re jealous.”

“You’re mad.”

“Ha!” John says. “You _are_. Because I’m dating and you’re not.”

Sherlock is quite sure that’s not it.

“It’s not that difficult, honestly. Sign up for eHarmony or Parships, exchange a few emails, have a date. It’s not hard.”

“It’s absurd.” Sherlock turns to look at John. “And I’m _not jealous_.”

“Of course you are, but that’s what I’m saying -- you don’t have to be. I’ll ask Rebecca to set you up with one of her friends, if you like. There’s a tall brunette with a wicked sense of humor... I think she broke up with her boyfriend a few weeks back.”

“So she might even deign to have sex with me, is that it?” Sherlock is aware of how his voice has gone rather flat. John is watching him, studying him, and it’s discomforting.

“It’s an entirely natural need,” John says, and smiles hopefully.

Sherlock considers the idea, more out of a sense of wanting to be fair than anything else. This is John, and it wouldn’t be right to dismiss his suggestion without proper thought. “You actually think I ought to do this.”

“Yes.”

“All right.” For once, Sherlock ignores his racing mind. He steps closer, notes that John’s hands make an aborted, confused gesture, and kisses John.

John’s mouth is warm, his lips a bit dry, and he’s quite a lot shorter than Sherlock. It makes things awkward, but then maybe they’re always awkward at this moment. John seems uncertain. Unwilling? No -- that’s his hand at Sherlock’s waist, fingers curling into Sherlock’s shirt. He kisses Sherlock back, gently but not without enthusiasm.

Then pulls back, his eyes dark and searching. “What,” he says. “What was that.”

It’s not a proper question, but clearly he deserves an answer regardless. “I was under the impression it’s called a kiss,” Sherlock says. “And that you were rather more familiar with them than I am.”

“Yes, well. It’s a relief to be an expert at something, compared to you.” John quirks an eyebrow. “That’s a joke.”

“Is it?” Sherlock takes John’s face in his hands, rubs his thumb across John’s lower lip, measuring all manner of things as he takes in John’s subtle reactions to being touched. “This wasn’t what you meant.”

“What?” John’s gaze moves to Sherlock’s mouth.

“When you said I ought to have sex.”

“Oh,” John says.

“You didn’t mean with you.” This is a test, Sherlock realizes, and worries about how invested he is in whether or not John gets high marks.

“No,” John says finally. “It’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock’s heart sinks. He hadn’t known it was capable of doing that. He begins to let go of John, but John quickly grabs onto his wrists and prevents it.

“Stop. Whatever it is you’re thinking.” John smiles. “I didn’t mean you ought to have sex with me because I didn’t think you’d want to. It isn’t as if there weren’t plenty of opportunities for you to suggest it.”

“I didn’t know I wanted to,” Sherlock explains. He feels shocked, literally as if he’d jammed a finger into an electrical socket, and then more confused when John takes his chin and tilts his face toward the light. “What are you doing?”

“Checking for signs of a head injury,” John explains. “Pupils seem okay.”

“Yes, ha ha, very funny.” Sherlock feels his cheeks flushing.

“Well, it isn’t as if I’ve heard you admit you don’t know something often. Or ever.” John studies him. “You do, then. Want to? You said you didn’t know you did.”

“I did,” Sherlock says, then because that isn’t entirely accurate corrects himself. “I do.”

“Um. We could.” John looks down at the floor, puts a hand to the back of his neck, tilts his head, glances up at Sherlock’s face in a soft, impossibly endearing way that makes something in Sherlock’s chest go warm. “Go upstairs? If you wanted to.”

“Do _you_ want to?” It bothers Sherlock that he cares, that he wants to be reassured that it isn’t just that John likes him and doesn’t want to damage his ego by refusing.

“Yeah,” John says. “Yes, I do. Quite a lot, actually.”

Sherlock follows John up the stairs, watching the way his arse shifts from behind under his jeans (which fit well enough) and his jumper (far too large and moth-eaten besides.) Aware that his brain is shifting into a mode at odds with what they’re about to do, Sherlock tries to focus on his senses in a more instinctive way. John’s room smells of damp, the sky outside still holds a hint of light from the rapidly setting sun, and Sherlock has never felt more out of his element. The urge to turn and leave the flat with a hasty excuse thrown over his shoulder is very strong.

So instead, Sherlock closes his hands on John’s arms, turns John around, and kisses him with every bit of the desperation he’s feeling. John’s lips part under his, the edge of John’s tooth sharp against Sherlock’s mouth and the firm press of his tongue determined to explore Sherlock’s. There’s salt and bitter and sweet, more alkaline than acid, and Sherlock couldn’t care less that he’s already got an ache in his neck from the angle.

His cock is erect inside his pants. The obvious solution to this problem is to change positions so that he can get gravity working in his favor, but each time he thinks he’s ready to pull away from John’s mouth long enough to suggest it, it turns out he’s wrong.

Convenient that he can’t share that thought out loud -- he’d never hear the end of it.

Thank _God_ John finally tugs his head back, strong fingers twined into the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and mutters, “There’s a bed.”

“Astonishing,” Sherlock manages in reply, and bites John’s ear lobe.

John groans and shoves at him, and somehow they find the mattress and lower themselves onto it, not bothering to do anything about the duvet.

“Want to touch your _skin_ ,” Sherlock whines, pushing at John’s ridiculous sweater and the shirt underneath it. “You’ve got too many clothes.”

“Have to do something about that.” John half sits and struggles out of both items at once until they’re nothing more than a hopeless tangle of wool and cotton. “Yours, too.”

Sherlock means to do as he’s been told, but the sight of John’s skin, accessible, calls to him like a siren. He leans in and drags his lips across the front of John’s shoulder, tasting him. John inhales sharply and fumbles with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and a moment later they are pressed together and kissing so hard it’s nearly painful.

There’s only a small lamp in the corner. The room isn’t well lit enough to allow Sherlock to look at John the way he wants to, but he tells himself that this won’t be a one-off. He’ll have other opportunities. For now, he has to be content running his hands over every inch of John he can reach, mapping John’s skin with his fingers, measuring the width of each individual rib -- is that a long-healed break, that tiny ridge? -- and discovering that John is ticklish along the back of his left bicep.

“I’m not one of your experiments,” John complains, squirming.

“But you’re so interesting,” Sherlock tries to say. He gets distracted when John rolls them both onto their sides and gets a hand down the front of his trousers. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.” He concentrates on the sensation for a few moments, then adds, “You do realize I’ve no idea what I’m doing?”

“I have,” John says. He sits up -- which is no good, no good at all because it means he stops touching Sherlock -- and asks, very seriously, “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock looks back at him. “Yes. Yes, of course I do. Of course I trust you.”

“Then it would help,” John says, grinning rakishly, “if you’d take off the rest of your clothes.”

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Sherlock is flat on his back with one of John’s fingers in his arse and John’s mouth hovering inches from his prick. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life and completely, thrillingly convinced that he’s going to have an orgasm. It’s been years -- usually, he can’t shut his brain off long enough to focus on the physical -- and God, he wants it. When he feels the heat of John’s mouth on him, his entire body arches upward, straining for more.

John hums as if he’s enjoying this and Sherlock clutches at his shoulder. “Wait,” he gasps, and John stops.

“Mm. Need a minute?” John seems to understand the expression on Sherlock’s face and disagree with it at the same time. “It’s all right to come, you know. That _is_ the point of all this.”

Sherlock inhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head. “Then it will be over.”

“And then we can do it again,” John points out. “Assuming you want to. I’m here. God, even when I’m --” He makes what might be a frustrated sound and sits back on his heels. “Sherlock. Even when I’m not here, I’m here, all right? I’m _always_ here. With you.” He obviously means something important by this, and Sherlock will have to sort out what it is later, when they aren’t both naked and hard.

It _is_ a relief that John doesn’t think this is a one-off either, though.

“What’s going on in your head?” John asks affectionately.

Sherlock pouts. “Too much. Make it stop.” He tugs John on top of him, not caring when John’s elbow jabs him hard enough to leave a bruise, and grabs onto John’s hips. Like this, John’s prick is beside his own, and each movement feels exquisite, each slide of damp skin and rasp of pubic hair. Sherlock wonders what John might taste like, and determines to find out. But not now. Now, they’re both gasping and rubbing against each other. John’s mouth is hungry, sharp teeth biting at him, hot breath smelling of tannin.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John gasps. “You’re so _good_.”

He’s vain enough to be pleased at the compliment even if it doesn’t do anything for him sexually. He can’t care about how talented he is or isn’t -- he only knows that he’s trembling with desire, poised at the edge of release and waiting for the moment when he tips and spills, and it’s all John.

Everything’s John.

When orgasm tears through him it’s like being cut with a knife, taken apart so thoroughly that being put back together the way he’d been is impossible. Sherlock doesn’t care. John groans, hips jerking so that his hard prick grinds against the seam between Sherlock’s thigh and groin. The spurt of fluid is slick and warm and a bit sticky, and the pounding of John’s heartbeat against Sherlock’s chest is oddly reassuring.

After a moment, John lifts his weight from Sherlock’s body and drops down beside him instead.

Sherlock runs a hand through the mess on his belly and lifts it so he can see the evidence. “Whomever’s on bottom’s the one who gets sticky,” he observes.

John laughs. “Sad fact, that.”

The ceiling in John’s room has cobwebs in the corners, Sherlock notes, then a different thought shoots through his head and he sits up, alarmed. “What about that girl?”

“What girl?”

Sherlock makes a meaningless gesture with his hand. “The one you’ve been seeing. Are you going to have sex with her again?”

“Are you asking me not to?” John frowns. “No, you know what? No. I’m not going to have sex with her again.”

This information comes as such a relief to Sherlock that he almost resents it, but is immediately followed by a sense of pride. He throws himself back against the pillows. “I’m better than she is,” he says with great satisfaction.

John makes a little sound that might almost be a laugh. But surely not? “Yes,” he says, and hugs Sherlock awkwardly across the ribs with one arm. “You’re much, much better.” He sighs, a good sigh. “Honestly? No one else even compares.”

 

End.


End file.
